by Barbara Dee
“Really? What does he care?”
“He said he wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“You’re asking me?” She tapped on my friendship bracelet, the one she’d given me when I first went into the hospital. “Hey, you’re still wearing it.”
“Of course. I never take it off. You’re my best friend, Harper.”
“And you’re mine.” She threw her arms around me, and I didn’t even care that she was full of germs. Because they were best-friend germs, the kind that make you feel better.
“Sorry I’ve been so weird about things,” I said into her hair.
“That’s okay,” Harper replied. “You have the right to be weird. For a few more weeks, anyway.”
“A few more weeks? What if I’m not finished by then?”
“Joking. Take all the time you need.” She pulled away, smiling. “But really, Norah, come back to school soon. Stuff keeps happening and you should be there with me, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, smiling back at her.
* * *
As soon as Harper left, I untaped Griffin’s message. He’d drawn a messy octopus next to a bad cyclops. Underneath, written in green gel pen, it said:
MISS U.
, GRIFFIN
PINK
Mom said she refused to let me go back to school the next Monday without looking me over in person, so she flew back to New York for the second straight weekend. I argued that it was completely unnecessary and a waste of money, but she insisted. Anyway, I told myself, Demeter would have done the same thing for Persephone, and there was no point arguing with a fierce Greek goddess.
As soon as she walked into the house, she gave her expert diagnosis. “Norah, you still look a bit iffy. Greg, doesn’t Norah look iffy to you?”
“Well . . . ,” Dad began.
“Maybe if you rested at home just a few more days—”
“NO,” I answered. By then I was demented with boredom, and why couldn’t Persephone could be just as fierce as Demeter? “That’s impossible, Mom! If I’m tired at school, I’ll just rest on my cot. But I’m going back on Monday. I have to.”
Mom looked at Dad, who shrugged like I give up. Then Nicole brought me a mug of tea, basically announcing that now there were three grown-ups paying attention to me, so I’d better not try anything funny, young lady.
And the four of us had a really nice weekend, actually. All three grown-ups took me apple picking on Saturday, and for dinner we went out for spicy ramen. On Sunday, Mom took me to the mall—for snow boots, she said, although we ended up buying origami earrings shaped like octopii.
On Sunday night, Mom told me she’d arranged her schedule to stay in New York a few more days. She said her students had “study days”—but I knew she was sticking around to make sure I was okay. And this time I didn’t argue.
* * *
On Monday morning, I was so excited I could barely eat breakfast. I dressed extra carefully, putting on a pretty blue top and a black skirt that Nicole had ordered for me online. When Dad told me we needed to leave ten minutes earlier than usual because he needed to meet with his editor, I was glad. I’d never told Ms. Farrell I’d chosen Persephone for the speech project, and I wanted to talk to her about it before homeroom.
When I entered the school building, there was Malik, putting up more MALIK FOR PREZ posters in front of the main office. He waved at me casually, as if I’d been in school just yesterday. I waved back. Poor Malik, I thought. He’s taking it so seriously. Why don’t people care about this election as much as he does?
Then I heard someone shouting my name.
“Norah! Norah Levy! Over here!”
The shout was coming from down the hallway, which was lined with tables. I started walking over, and immediately saw that the tables were crammed with baked stuff—cookies, muffins, brownies, slices of cake. A lot of pink frosting. Pink sprinkles.
“Hey, Norah, wanna buy a cookie to end breast cancer?” Thea was yelling at me, waving her arms. “We have chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, shortbread, gingerbread—”
I stopped in front of her. She had a giant pink ribbon pinned to her hoodie, and a pink baseball cap that said 8TH GRADE BAKE SALE in sequins. Which were also pink.
“Everything’s a dollar,” Thea announced. Lifting her chin to look past me at the kids streaming into the building, she launched into her spiel: “We’re raising money to fight breast cancer, which affects two hundred fifty thousand women in America every year. That’s one in eight women in this country alone. So you should definitely support our bake sale, because it’s for a very important cause.”
Now my eyes focused on the posters behind her, all of them either on pink oaktag or written in giant pink letters:
SUPPORT THE EIGHTH GRADE BAKE SALE TO END BREAST CANCER!
COOKIES FOR CANCER AWARENESS!
AARON BURR EIGHTH GRADE FOR THE CURE!
BE SWEET! BUY SWEET! BATTLE CANCER!
I stood there, staring.
Astrid came over. She was entirely pinked out: pink hair with a giant pink ribbon, pink eye shadow, pink sweatshirt, pink fuzzy slippers.
“Hey, Nor-ahh,” she said in a singsongy voice. “Come on, buy a cookie! Don’t you want to help us end breast cancer?”
“Are you serious?” I blurted.
She laughed. “Don’t we look serious?”
“Actually, no.” My heart was banging. “I think you look ridiculous.”
“Excuse me?”
“In all that pink. Like if you wear pink, that means you’re anti–breast cancer. Because, you know, breast cancer is terrified of the color pink.”
Kids were crowding the tables now. Some of them were grabbing cookies, but many were just spectating, watching a fight that was starting to get good. I was recognizing faces in the crush of kids: Malik. Kylie. Harrison. Cait. Addison. But I didn’t care. I was so mad right then, I was almost vibrating.
“Norah, that’s not what this is about, okay?” Thea said in her airiest voice. “You’re totally missing the point.”
“No, Thea, I totally get it. You think if you sell a few oatmeal raisin cookies and Astrid dresses like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, you get to feel all proud of yourselves, right?”
Astrid’s mouth dropped open. Even her tongue was pink. “Norah, omigod, what is your problem? Breast cancer is a terrible disease! How can you possibly not support our fight against it?”
“I do support it! I’m just against people who don’t know anything about cancer acting like they own it, like it’s their cute little pet cause!”
“Who’s that girl?” someone was asking. “Why is she saying that?”
Good question, I thought. Why was I making a scene?
I should just shut up.
I should leave.
Or maybe the floor could crack open and swallow me, like Persephone.
But it didn’t. Instead, I watched, barely breathing, as Malik bought himself a muffin with pink sprinkles on top. Then as Kylie helped herself to a pink ribbon, which she pinned to her sweater.
Kylie. The person who wouldn’t let me talk about cancer, because it was “too depressing.” Who was now decorating herself with a ribbon, like she was some kind of war hero. It felt like everything about me was being deleted.
And that was when I realized I didn’t care. About how much I said. Or didn’t say. What people thought about me. What they felt.
“You know what, Astrid?” I could hear myself shouting, which was totally unnecessary, because Astrid was right in front of me. “You keep saying ‘fight cancer,’ but you don’t have a clue what that means. It has nothing to do with cookies or posters. Or stupid pink frosting!”
“Omigod, this is insane,” Astrid said. She flipped her pink hair. “Look, Norah, you don’t need to be like this. We know you were sick, okay? We totally get it.”
“What?” My heart stopped. “You know? About my—”
“Yes, we heard. And we’re very sorry, all right
? But this bake sale isn’t about you.”
That did it. “Don’t you dare,” I hissed. “Don’t you dare say it’s not about me! You don’t get to decide—”
“Norah.”
I hadn’t seen her in the crowd, but all of a sudden Harper was grabbing my sleeve. “Come on, okay? Let’s get out of here.”
“NO!” I yanked my arm from her. It was like I was on fire, and I wasn’t done burning. “You know what else, Astrid? People fight all different kinds of cancer, not just breast cancer, and not even just mine. And no one dresses up for them and bakes brownies. But they deserve it just as much, okay? So if you enjoy feeling sorry for sick people, if it makes you feel superior and noble, think about them! Or anyone besides yourself! And you too, Thea! And Kylie—”
“Norah?”
I whipped my head around. Griffin was standing right next to me. His face was pale and his big brown eyes were huge. Full of questions.
“Norah?” he repeated. “What’s going on?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but I couldn’t talk. Couldn’t breathe.
So I ran.
CAPTIVITY
Norah? Come on, we see your feet, we can tell you’re in there.”
Harper was in front of my bathroom stall, but I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
“You’re going to lock yourself in the toilet all day? Are you all right?”
Obviously not. If you’re all right, you don’t lock yourself in the toilet, do you?
“Can I do anything? Do you need anything?”
How about an escape ladder? Or a catapult?
“Norah, it’s Aria,” Aria said. “I’m here too.”
Oh, great. Let’s all eat cinnamon pretzels.
“Norah, what happened?” Harper asked. “Why were you so mad at them?”
“Don’t you want to raise money, even if those cookies looked gross?” Aria asked.
I didn’t answer. Because I couldn’t. The shock that Thea and Astrid—and maybe Griffin, too—had known about me all along, the sick feeling that I’d totally lost it in front of everyone—it was too much. Too much to have to think of words.
“We should go get someone,” Harper murmured. “I’m worried.”
“Who’s her guidance counselor?” Aria asked.
“Ms. Castro.”
“Don’t get Ms. Castro,” I blurted.
“Norah?” Harper pressed against the door. “Hey. You okay?”
“No. But don’t get Ms. Castro.”
“Promise. Will you come out, then?”
“No.”
“But it’s stinky in here.”
That’s my problem, not yours. Just leave if you don’t like it.
Pause. Now they were whispering.
“Well, fine, Norah,” Aria announced. “But if you refuse to open the door, we’re definitely getting someone. So just tell us who you want it to be.”
“Ms. Farrell.” I didn’t know where that answer came from, but it’s what I said.
Aria ran out of the girls’ room. So now it was just Harper and me. I could tell she’d sat herself in front of my stall, guarding it like she was Cerberus, the three-headed watchdog of the underworld. Although I had no idea what she was guarding it from. Ms. Castro, maybe. Or Astrid and Thea.
“Aria was right: Those cookies looked gross,” she said. “You can tell they bought cookie dough.”
Who cares about the stupid cookie dough. Do you think that’s the issue?
“Astrid’s so horrible. It was cool how you told her off. I wish I could do that.”
You can, Harper. It’s easy. Just open your mouth.
She kept chatting, but I didn’t listen. Something about Art Club. Overcoming Challenges. Whatever. I could tell she was trying her best to distract me, even though she was freaked about my behavior—so part of me kept thinking how lucky I was to have such a good friend. But another part of me kept wishing she would just shut up, let me hide by myself in peace.
The girls’ room door creaked. Aria and Ms. Farrell burst in.
“Norah, you okay?” Ms. Farrell asked. She sounded worried.
“I want to go home,” I blurted. It wasn’t until I said this that I knew it was what I wanted. I wanted it as much as I ever had in my whole life—even when I was Nowhere in the hospital, in the middle of the night.
“Absolutely,” Ms. Farrell said. “Would you like to go to the nurse’s office while we contact your parents?”
“No.”
“Really? Because I’m sure you’d be more comfortable on your cot—”
“No thank you.”
“All right, sweetheart.” It sounded weird; teachers didn’t call you names like that after preschool. But because it was Ms. Farrell, I didn’t mind.
“Your mom is in California?” she asked.
She’s done her homework. “Yes, but she’s still here for a few days. In New York.”
“Great. I’m going to go call her now. Harper and Aria will stay here with you.”
“You don’t have to. I can call her.”
“Yes, but I’d prefer to contact her myself, if that’s okay.”
Not waiting for my answer, Ms. Farrell left the bathroom.
Nobody said anything for a while. Then Aria started singing. She did some dance moves which I couldn’t see, but I could tell they involved elbows, because it was that sort of music. Anyway, it took my mind off the bathroom stinkiness.
About five minutes later, Ms. Farrell returned. Mom was on her way, she said.
By then I was feeling stiff and crampy. But I refused to leave the stall. I wouldn’t come out until Mom had rescued me from this place, and I knew I’d never have to return here, ever.
Ever, ever, ever.
Q AND A
Mom didn’t ask any questions or even say very much the whole ride home. It wasn’t until we were in the living room and she’d made us both some chai that she asked me what had happened. So I told her.
She tucked her legs underneath her in a cozy way, like it was her sofa and she still lived here. “These were the eighth grade girls you’d mentioned before? From your math class?”
I nodded.
“Okay,” Mom said. “So can you explain why you reacted—why their bake sale affected you so much, honey? Because isn’t it a good thing to try to cure breast cancer?”
“Sure,” I said limply. “Of course.”
“And, you know, not so long ago, people didn’t talk about breast cancer. Or any cancer, really. So it’s great that breast cancer is out in the open now, and so many women are embracing it as a cause, raising awareness, doing walkathons—”
“Mom, I know. It wasn’t about breast cancer.”
“Well, what was it about, then? I feel like I’m missing something.”
But so was I. It was weird how I couldn’t explain my meltdown, especially about something like a fund-raiser to end cancer, of all things. Sure, Thea and Astrid were acting smug and clueless and obnoxious—but why should their dumb behavior have set me off like that? And now I’d humiliated myself in front of everyone. Especially Griffin. WHY?
All I knew for sure was that school was over for me. I’d tried to return, it was a worthwhile experiment, but the whole thing was hopeless. I couldn’t pretend I’d never been sick, because that’s who I was, The Girl Who; but I couldn’t explain what that meant, because to do it I’d have to speak Martian. So it was like I was trapped halfway between two worlds—Sick and Not-Sick—and didn’t completely belong in either one.
Mom sipped her tea. “You know, sweetheart, a few days ago you wouldn’t even consider staying home to rest. You said you had to go back to school. Remember?”
“Yes, but I was wrong,” I said quickly. “Can’t I just work with Ayesha from now on? Please?”
She put down her mug. “You mean not go to school anymore?”
I nodded.
“Norah—” Mom began.
“You saw how great I did with her! She got me so far ahead I’m not even in sev
enth grade math and science! If I worked with her now that I actually have energy, I’d get even further ahead!”
“Maybe you would. But it’s not a race.”
“Will you even consider it?”
She sighed. “I’ll discuss it with your dad.”
“That means no.”
“Norah—”
“You always say you’re going to discuss things, but you never do!”
“That isn’t true, honey. We just discuss things on our own timetable.”
“Which is always too slow!”
Mom kissed my cheek and went off to make some phone calls. I could tell she was calling California. It occurred to me that maybe she was working out a way not to go back to the university—and really, if I was quitting Burr to homeschool, it would probably affect her job. Especially if Dad was traveling for his magazine again.
But I couldn’t worry about that now.
I drank my tea and thought about Ayesha.
* * *
When Dad came home that evening, I expected to have the same conversation all over again. Q: Why did you react so strongly to the stupid bake sale? A: I don’t know! But he didn’t even mention it. He just asked me if I wanted chicken or spaghetti for supper, and then afterward suggested we watch a movie. I guess maybe he thought it would all blow over, and tomorrow morning he’d be driving me to school, just like normal.
I woke at the regular time. I didn’t want him to think I was being lazy. It wasn’t about lazy.
“Norah, you took the check I wrote for lunch money?” he asked, not looking up from his phone as he sipped his coffee.
“Dad, please listen. I’m really, really not going back there,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Didn’t Mom tell you? I just want to homeschool with Ayesha.”
He rubbed his chin, which he hadn’t shaved yet. “Do you really mean this?”
“Yep. And you know how stubborn I can be. So will you please, please call her?”
“All right. But no promises. Your mom and I—”
“I know. We’re on different speeds. I’ll try to be patient.”
“Thank you. Much appreciated.”
“But I’m not promising I’ll stay patient.”